Arms of a Woman
by athousandsmiles
Summary: One by one the obstacles fall away, until there's nothing left but the two of you. Rated M to be safe, but I'd say it's a mild M. House/Cameron
1. Chapter 1

Arms of a Woman 1/2

Pairing: House/Cameron, slight House/Stacy

Summary: One by one the obstacles fall away, until there's nothing left but the two of you.

This fic is for: lj user="dahlin_zermott"

She asked for: House taking care of sick!Cameron, angst, a teddy bear

Disclaimer: Never have owned House and company, never will.

Beta: lj user="blueheronz" Thanks so much, my friend.

A/N: I took some liberties with the sick!Cameron part, but I hope Izza is okay with this. She wanted angst, she got angst. Set in season two with a few nods to canon (iAutopsy/i and iFailure to Communicate/i), but otherwise sorta AU. If you're a canon purist, you should probably skip this one.

A/N 2 I couldn't think of a title, and since this was inspired, in part, by Amos Lee's iArms of a Woman/i, I just went with that.

A/N 3 This sort of randomly vacillates between Cam's POV and House's (written in second person no less), because that's just how it came out. But I separated parts and hopefully I made it clear who's POV it is within the first sentence or two.

1.

You slept together.

More accurately, you had sex. Once. In the morgue. You found him there after Andi died, drawing the sheet over her ashen figure, hardened in death as it never had been in life.

On his face, lines, like tally marks of grief, stood out in stark contrast to the watered down blue of his eyes. In the harsh fluorescent light, his skin was as pale as Andi's corpse. He was nearly folded in half, stooped so low over her body that you feared he might fall over, and you clenched and barely refrained from rushing to him.

Unnoticed, you stood in the shadow of the doorway and marveled at the absence of mockery and arrogance that he usually wore as naturally as his well-fitting t-shirts. It was as if you were seeing him, really seeing him for the first time and you realized you didn't know him as well as you thought.

But it didn't matter. His grief drew you in like a tractor beam. You went to him, intent on offering whatever comfort you could.

Your words disappeared into the mist of his eyes. His only reaction to your presence was to grab you and pull you roughly into his arms, burying his face in your neck for a moment, like a child seeking comfort. And the next thing you knew, your clothes were strewn across the gleaming metal table and he was sliding in and out of you erratically, like a man driven. You weren't sure if his aim was comfort, absolution, or merely distraction. You just knew that you would never think of the morgue the same again.

In a room full of death, he brought your body to life.

Once it was over, he'd zipped up his jeans, handed you your blouse with barely a glance at your face, and walked out without a word. You knew then that you would both pretend it never happened.

Alone in the morgue, you'd buttoned up your blouse regretfully, sure that you could never wear it again without remembering the way his slender fingers unbuttoned it and slid it off your shoulders before tossing it away. You would never forget the way his eyes held you more intimately than his arms, or the way he sighed your name so softly you almost missed it.

And now, three weeks later, you've missed your period and he, well he is suddenly preoccupied with the unexpected return of Stacy in his life.

2.

In the silence of his office your words sound even more momentous, if that's possible.

"I'm pregnant," you tell him, soft yet defiant. You expect nothing from him, and that is exactly what you get.

He pauses, scowls and says, "Get rid of it," in no uncertain terms. Whatever softness you saw (imagined?) in him is gone, like he has petrified right before your eyes.

"I can't. You know I can't. You don't have to be a part of it. I don't expect you to. I just need to know if you can deal with me here or if I should start looking for another job."

He falters a bit at that and you know he hates change enough to want you to stay. His eyes narrow and he looks at your still flat abdomen. "What are you gonna say when people start asking who the father is?"

It's no surprise he doesn't want anyone to know it's his. Without hesitation you tell him the response you've practiced in your head countless times. "I'll tell them I did something stupid one night after we lost a patient. And now I'm dealing with the consequences."

It isn't the whole truth, but it isn't a lie either. The rest is none of their business. You've had lots of practice at withholding private information over the years, so this won't be a challenge at all.

You start to leave his office when he stops you with, "Don't expect special treatment, just because you've got a parasite."

"I don't," is your unequivocal retort, and you shake your head on the way out.

He is so predictable sometimes.

3.

He is so preoccupied with Stacy that he vacillates between ignoring your very existence and treating you like gunk to be scraped off his shoe. His promise of no special treatment was no joke. He assigns all his clinic hours to you, makes you do all the charting before you leave each day, and cruelly mocks every idea you have during differentials.

It's nothing less than you expected, but that doesn't make it any easier to take. You keep your chin up and your spine as straight as a steel rod and you tell yourself he wouldn't be so cruel if you didn't matter to him in some way. (He hasn't excised the Freudian theories from you completely.)

But underneath your cool and indifferent exterior you are breaking. You think of precious metal in the refining fire and hope (know) you will come out stronger in the end. The hardest thing is watching House pine for Stacy and knowing that he won't ever be yours. It might have been easier if you'd never slept with him, never come to know how gentle he can be, what it feels like to have his hands on you, his lips on your skin, his gaze resting on you so tenderly and your name coming from his mouth like a prayer.

You should be happy to learn that he is capable of loving, even if it's not you he loves. Jealousy is not your thing. You don't hate Stacy. You just wish he felt for you even a fraction of what he feels for her. But you've never really believed that dreams come true no matter how much you want to (or pretend). You're having his baby and that's as close to having him as you're ever going to get.

And then, after a late night at work you begin to bleed heavily, life poring out of you in a crimson waterfall. Medically, there is nothing you can do about it. You curl up into a ball on your bed and weep for the child you will never have.

The next morning you get up and go to work as usual.

4.

Your new patient is an unusually large man; not fat so much as bulky and muscular and very tall, with sudden paralysis as one of his symptoms. Moving him is a Herculean task even with the help of the nursing staff.

Chase and Foreman have gone to check his apartment and workplace for toxins, and you are assigned to draw more blood and do a lumbar puncture.

In a moment of foolishness, you protest, asking House if you can wait until the guys get back to help. You should know better.

"If you can't do the job, then why should I keep you around?" He glances around you toward the hall, distracted, and you turn and see Stacy out there and you know you are forgotten. "Do your damn job!" he mutters, dismissing you disdainfully.

You should've known that he wouldn't cut you any slack. Shoulders squared, you march out of his office, brushing past Stacy with a pasted on smile to cover your regret.

Enlisting the help of three of the nurses, you manage to roll the patient on his side, and just as you're about to insert the needle, he begins seizing, escaping the hold of the nurses, limbs flailing in every direction.

A fist makes contact with your temple. You are airborne for a second before you collide with a crash cart and then the floor, aware only of the frenzy of medical personnel trying to restrain him. The world goes black for a minute and then spins slowly back into place.

Two Wilsons stand before you with hands outstretched. You shake your head until they merge into one and then you allow him to help you to your feet.

"I'm fine," you tell him, brushing off his concern and moving back toward the now sedated patient to finish what you started. You are being stubborn, you know, but there is no way in hell you'll let someone else do the job you've been ordered to do. Not when that would only give House more ammo against you.

"Cameron, let the nurses do that. I need to check your eye," Wilson insists.

For the first time, you realize blood is trickling from your head and you can feel your left eye starting to swell. Your shoulder and ribcage are also sore, which you find strange because you don't remember how that happened.

"I'm fine," you repeat, and finish the LP before he manages to pull you away and push you gently down on a stool.

5.

A couple of stitches and some pain relievers later and you are in the lab running tests, doing your job. You assume Wilson will tell House about your run-in with the patient, which is fine by you. You really aren't in the mood to deal with him at the moment.

You turn as you hear the whoosh of the lab door and there he is, leaning on his cane and staring you down. His face is unreadable, a page written in a language you don't know. You look away, eyes focused on your work, wondering if he has some sort of radar that alerts him to your desire to be left alone.

"You get checked out?" he asks, tapping his cane on the floor.

"Few stitches and a bruise. Diagnostically boring. I'm fine," you answer, tired of repeating yourself.

"But did you get checked out?" he persists, waving toward your abdomen, and you suddenly take his meaning.

"I had a miscarriage three days ago," you mutter with a shrug, and a moment later you hear the door whoosh again as he exits the lab.

You don't want to think about the relief he's probably feeling.

6.

You limp your way back to the office and flop down in your office chair. There is a strange knot in your stomach at the thought of Cameron's miscarriage. You didn't even want the kid, so there's no reason you should feel as if you've lost something. Yet there it is, like a piece of you has been cut out against your will. You know that feeling well.

She barely looked at you, but that didn't keep you from seeing the ugly bruise on her face that you might as well have put there yourself, or the neat row of stitches along her temple. She's never shirked her duties with a patient before, and you wish now that you would have listened to her. You're not even sure why you've been such a bastard to her since...well, since you screwed her in the morgue. You were angry when it was over because she got to you, not just physically.

She's comfort personified. Living, breathing chicken soup for the soul, you think wryly.

When she found you in the morgue that day, you were feeling like a failure, angry at the loss of another life. Not just any anonymous patient, but Andi. And then Cameron was there, so earnest and beautiful and full of empathy and heartbreak and hope. Maybe you thought you could steal a little of that hope from her if you touched her, or maybe it was just a moment of insanity. All you remember was that you had to have her right there, right then.

You always thought she was fragile, but you are learning that she is the strongest person you've ever known, and maybe that's what puzzles you the most about her. She doesn't run, even when you throw your worst at her. She is like a mirror to you, because when you look at her all you see are your own weaknesses and failures reflected back at you in the face of her strength. You're both damaged, but like Andi, she has the courage to live her life without wallowing in misery.

You turn your focus to Stacy instead, because although it's just as painful to think about what you had and what might have been and what you could have again if you play your cards right, it's a familiar kind of pain. You've never denied that you are a bit of a masochist, at least not to yourself. But you prefer the devil you know to the one you don't.

The afternoon light is fading fast, casting the office in shadow. You hunker down in your chair, thinking this is where you belong, in darkness and shadow. But you can't stop thinking about... You can't stop thinking. You never could.

You lean forward and put your hand on the windowpane, feeling the cold seep into your palm. It's supposed to snow tomorrow, but you'll be in Baltimore with Stacy so you really don't care.

You really don't care.

7.

You're snowed in here and Stacy has invited you up to her hotel room and you know what is coming. It's what you've been chasing since she came back into your life, and yet, you're conflicted about it.

She kisses you once, and then her cell phone rings and she's handing it to you with an impatient sigh.

Wilson is on the line telling you that Cameron solved the aphasia case, pretty much single-handedly. And then Stacy kisses you again, despite the fact that you're still on the phone. Her lips are demanding and so unlike the life and warmth, the yielding of Cameron's, and you really shouldn't be making this comparison right now, but you can't help it.

There's a bed right there, just a few feet away, and you could easily have what you've been after for so long. Stacy's kissing you, pressing her willing body to yours with Wilson's voice yammering away in your ear and it's all wrong. Not just ethically or morally, but chemically wrong.

It's not the same. Not familiar. Not comfortable. Not sexy. Not... Cameron. The thought hits you like a Louisville Slugger to the solar plexus.

Stacy is not Cameron. Cameron is not Stacy.

And you know now which one you want and it's not the one standing before you about to commit adultery because she had a fight with her husband. Betrayal comes too easily to her and forgiveness doesn't come easily enough to you. She took a chunk of your leg and left with a chunk of your heart.

Trust is Cameron's God. She worships at its feet, bows at the altar of doing what is morally right. In her care, you'd either be dead or whole, like you wanted. With an emotional clarity you haven't felt in a long time, you know you want her. Need her.

You love her.

Pulling away from Stacy, you watch as she flops on the bed, expectant.

"Where's Cameron?" you ask, interrupting Wilson's story about polar bears or something you're only half listening to.

"She left early," he tells you. "Said she had an appointment."

"Right," you acknowledge, because you remember she told you yesterday. Follow up with her gynecologist after her miscarriage.

Grabbing your cane and heading for the door, you mumble to Stacy that you're borrowing her phone. On her face, in her eyes, defeat replaces desire. But you feel nothing but embarrassment and regret for the weeks you've wasted chasing after her instead of facing what you really wanted.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** This part was beta'd by my friend, jesmel on livejournal. I have a sequel in mind for this story, but whether or not I will get the time to write it is the question.

Disclaimer in chapter one.

**8.**

Outside the window snow flies through the air in a frantic mimicry of the mobs inside the airport desperately trying to get out of Baltimore. Above the hum of the crowd, you hear the grating scrape of the plows working to clear the tarmac. Seeking a quiet place to think, you limp through the melee, utilizing your cane to clear a path when necessary. You spot an unfinished area that has been cordoned off for safety and make your way over, Stacy's phone clasped in your free hand.

You think of Cameron in the quiet of her apartment, imagine her curled up on her bed, and you wish you were there, tucked around her like a quilt. The thought gives you a sense of peace that is all mixed up with desire and desperation, fear and need.

In this abandoned section of the airport, the smell of sawdust hovers in the air. Behind the temporary walls, construction has halted for the night and you are alone with your thoughts. In the distance, where the airport is still abuzz with life, you see a kiosk with stuffed bears lining the shelves. Involuntarily, your vivid imagination conjures up a vision of a small boy with eyes like yours and a soft brown mop of hair. He drags a teddy bear behind him as he climbs into your lap and lays his head against your chest. You swear you can even smell that little boy scent in his hair--sweat and sugar and grass and sky all rolled together and you feel an indescribable sense of... possibility.

Becoming a father was never on your list of priorities. Your experiences with your own dad has warped any sense of paternity you might have had. And after Stacy and your leg and your subsequent drug addiction... well, the idea became even less appealing. You're still not sure you'd actively seek it out now, but with Cameron, you think you might be able to handle it if you got another chance.

Sitting on the cold hard tiles, you dial her number. It's late and you know she's probably sleeping, but that doesn't stop you. You really need to hear her voice.

Four rings and you're about to hang up when...

"Hello?" she answers, and there's an uncertainty there that weakens your resolve to tell her... well, everything.

"Hey," you say. "Did I wake you?"

"House?"

"Yeah, who'd you think it was?" The sarcasm makes you cringe because you didn't mean for it to come out that way.

"Caller ID said Stacy Warner," she replies, and suddenly you feel stupid because you forgot you had Stacy's phone.

"Right. My phone is dead. Had to borrow Stacy's." Running a weary hand over your face, you think of the case she solved and say, "Heard you speak aphasia now." You pause because you've been cruel to her for so long it's almost instinctive. She may be strong, but you know she's not invincible and you don't want to hurt her anymore. You don't want to break her.

"I'm... proud of you," you manage to say, almost choking on the words even though you mean it. Or maybe because you mean it. Sincerity is a language you don't speak fluently.

There's a long awkward silence, and then finally, softly, she says, "Thanks."

"How did your appointment go?" you ask, because you are genuinely concerned. Medically you know what's happening to her body, how traumatic even a first trimester miscarriage can be to a woman, at least physically. But you want to know the emotional effects as well, to know if she's okay.

It occurs to you now that you had actually looked forward to watching Cameron's body change as the baby grew. The rounding of hips and belly and breasts--the mental image of her carrying your child is surprisingly erotic.

"It... went fine. Everything's fine," she states, detached, matter of fact. "Is that why you called?"

You wince at the cynicism in her voice and decide that now is confession time.

"No." Elbows on your knees, and one hand smoothing across your face, you take a deep breath and press on. "I just... wanted to say I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" she asks, and you can tell she's genuinely puzzled.

"Everything." You're prepared to start listing all your sins against her if you have to, but then, she probably doesn't need a reminder.

"O...kay," she responds, and there's so much in that pause. Forgiveness. Skepticism. Like she thinks you're suffering from temporary insanity, and she fully expects you'll still be a bastard tomorrow. She's not humoring you, she just believes that this streak of kindness won't last. And you realize that you really don't want to hurt her anymore and that you've got your work cut out for you if you're going to regain her trust.

And then you start talking, confessing things you never thought you'd say.

"Did you ever want something so much that you would do anything to get it?" You don't wait for an answer because you might just lose your courage if you stop now.

"Stacy invited me up to her hotel room and then she kissed me. And I didn't... feel anything." You let out an ironic laugh and hope Cameron won't hang up on you.

"And then she kissed me again and...still nothing. And Wilson called and told me you solved the case and I realized I... I really wanted to hear your voice." Your heart clenches at the little gasp she makes and you continue, words spilling out of you like the little pills from your prescription vial.

"So here I am sitting on the airport floor and it's snowing and all I really want right now is to curl up beside you and sleep." Sure you've never said anything that corny out loud in your entire life, you let out a little huff of a laugh and wonder if she thinks you've lost your mind.

The silence piles up like the snow outside. And then...

"That sounds nice," she murmurs, and with those words, she's plowed the runways around your heart and cleared it for takeoff.

"I miss you," you admit, and you think you hear her sniffle. It was not your intention to make her cry, but you suppose you've done just that many times before.

"Cameron," emotion thickens in your voice like syrup, and you try in vain to swallow it down, "will you give me another chance?"

"Yes." There is caution in her voice and you can't say it's not justified, but she said yes and that's all that matters. If you got what you deserved, she'd have hung up on you by now.

"Good, that's... that's good," is all you can manage to get out when Stacy's phone starts beeping and you discover her battery is dying as well. You really don't want to disconnect. In fact, you'd be perfectly content to just listen to Cameron breathe all night. Sappy as that is, you crave whatever connection you can get right now.

"House, I think your phone is dying."

"Is that what all that beeping is?" you snark, and then instantly regret it. You don't want to take your frustrations out on her.

"You'll be back tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah, tomorrow," you answer. "Cameron?" The damn phone is beeping more urgently now and it's pissing you off.

"Yeah?"

What you really want to say is "I love you," but you can't. Not yet. So instead you say, "Have a good night. I'll see you tomorrow."

"'Night, House," she says, and her voice pours over your skin like liquid warmth. You can only imagine what her touch will do, and you wish you had taken the time to really _feel_ everything the one time you were with her. That's a mistake you won't make again.

**9.**

You're still sitting on the cold, unforgiving airport floor when you spot Stacy coming toward you with her phone charger in hand. Gone from her face is the cheap drugstore makeup, but not the perpetual look of tolerant affection she wears in your presence.

"Thought you might need this," she says, holding it out to you.

Instead of taking it, you simply hand over her phone, unaffected by the touch of her hand as she reaches for it.

She slides down the wall until she's sitting next to you, twining the charger cord between her fingers. "So... that's it then?"

You don't have to ask her what she means. She's always been pretty good at reading you, and you her.

"Yeah," you mutter, chancing a look at her face.

Her hand unconsciously reaches for her missing silver cross and she sighs. "Just like that? Greg we were... What happened? Is this because of Mark?"

It takes you a moment to find the right words to explain everything, but all you can say is, "There's someone else." After a brief pause, you say, "I didn't know she was... I didn't know she meant so much to me until today."

"And she... feels the same way?"

"I think so," you answer, scrunching up your face at the doubt you suddenly feel. "I hope so."

As she walks away, you realize for the first time why you and Stacy didn't, won't, work. You're both selfish people, unwilling to compromise. She wants what she wants and you want what you want and rarely ever the twain shall meet. The flirtatious sparring was fun for a while, but it was never anything either of you could sustain indefinitely. You wonder why you didn't see it before, but then you know it's because you have the contrast of Cameron in your life now. She's equally as stubborn as you are, if not more so, but she's never selfish.

You've been chasing Stacy, thinking you still loved her, but now you know you just wanted to recapture the life you had when you were whole, as if that were even possible. And maybe a big part of you just wanted to prove that you could win her back. You add that to your list of reasons why you hate yourself sometimes. But you're not so selfish that you want to hurt her anymore, and you sincerely hope that she can repair her marriage and be happy.

**10.**

You manage to catch the first flight back to Newark, and you find yourself more eager to get to work than you think you've ever been. Beneath your eyelids, Cameron's image drifts like snowflakes, one fading away to be replaced by another. Always with you, always there. She pulses beneath your skin like the blood in your veins. It's the thought of her sad, sweet face that does you in. You want to reach out and cup her cheeks, press your lips to the spaces where her tears would fall if she'd let them. Every latent romantic tendency you've ever felt rises within you in a desperate wave of need.

When you arrive at the hospital, she's not there yet and you feel a keen disappointment and a nervousness that you haven't felt since you went on a date with her and bought her a corsage. Foreman and Chase are in the conference room, oblivious to your presence. You slink down into your desk chair, hoping to keep it that way. And you wait.

Over an hour has passed when she strides into the conference room all fluster and frenzy, looking like she only just woke up. She doesn't see you either as she shrugs her coat off and settles her bag onto the desk. Foreman teases her, wanting to know if she got lucky last night and she scowls and tells him she overslept. Before you know it both Foreman and Chase are mocking her about her feelings for you and placing bets on whether you slept with Stacy or not. They are getting far too much enjoyment out of her pain for your liking, though she is making a valiant effort at appearing indifferent. You really want to go in and smack the smug smiles off their faces with the handle of your cane. Instead, you decide that slow, prolonged, torture will work better.

You sweep into the room, a scowl on your face, and point your cane at Chase. "You, go do my clinic hours."

He casts a look of disbelief at Foreman, who shrugs, and then he tosses his pen on the table and leaves the room.

Foreman was harsher with Cameron, so you've saved the worst punishment for him. You turn your cane in his direction and say, "And you, go down and check in with Brenda. I'm sure she could use your help with bedpan duty."

"Right," he laughs, like he thinks you're kidding.

Without blinking an eye, you retort, "I heard her saying she was short on nurses today. Me being the generous guy I am, I thought we could help. And by we, I mean you."

He rolls his eyes, shakes his head and mutters, "Guess you didn't get lucky last night," as he exits the room.

It's just the two of you now, you and Cameron. In the soft winter light shining through the window, she looks ethereal, a Botticelli painting come to life. You don't know how you've resisted her for as long as you have.

With a nod, you gesture for her to follow you into your office.

**11.**

Standing beside his desk, your arms crossed over your abdomen in a gesture of self-protectiveness, you're sure, despite those amazing things he said to you on the phone the night before, that he has returned to bastard mode. You're just waiting for whatever lame excuse or explanation he'll give for his behavior last night.

He seems nervous and can't seem to hold your gaze for long. But then, you are surprised when he reaches forward, tentatively, and takes your hand, stroking his thumb across your knuckles.

"You okay?" he asks, and you nod, trying not to cry because tenderness from him is almost harder to bear than cruelty. It's so unusual. So unexpected.

A promise, unfulfilled, lingers in the air between you.

"You wanna come over tonight? Have dinner?" He pauses and you're blinking and nodding and smiling a little because he looks so vulnerable and you can't believe that he could ever be afraid of you.

**12.**

The weather is indecisive, the skies pouring forth a mix of rain, sleet and snow. The roads are only wet so far, but you know they'll freeze over if the temperature drops even a few degrees. You pull up in front of House's apartment, but there are no open parking spaces so you continue down the street. And continue.

The nearest open space is two blocks away.

You park and briefly consider driving home and calling the whole thing off. Anxiety has a vice-like grip on you all of a sudden. A dozen doubts and what-ifs attack your mind like a swarm of gnats, and the weather isn't helping. You didn't bring an umbrella or even wear a hat and you don't feel like walking two blocks in this maelstrom of precipitation. But... you always feel as if any chance with House will most certainly be your last. You're no coward. If you get to his door and he's suddenly changed his mind, well, at least you followed through.

In seconds you are drenched. Pellets of sleet, like tiny heat-seeking missiles, sting your face as you half run down the street. By the time you reach his front door there is not a dry spot on you and you're shivering so much your teeth are clacking together painfully. You probably look pathetic, like a wet stray dog, but you knock and there's no turning back now.

**13.**

You open your door and she's standing before you, your Botticelli caught in the tempest. She's soaked and shivering and looking as miserable as a person could possibly look. She seems to know your first question because she answers before you even ask.

"Couldn't find a parking space," she chatters, between teeth that won't stay clenched.

Unable to help yourself, you pull her into your apartment and into your arms, gathering her as close as possible and rubbing your hands over her back and arms in the hope of infusing some of your warmth into her. Strands of wet hair catch in your stubble as you nuzzle your cheek against the top of her head. You realize right away that she won't warm up as long as she's still wearing her wet clothes. The only thing you've accomplished is making yourself wet and cold too. Drawing away just far enough to look down at her face, you note that her teeth are still chattering, so you pull back and lead her to the bathroom.

"Hot shower," you say, pointing with your cane. "Get in. I'll get you something to wear."

She nods and shuts the door. You wait until you hear the water running and then you go to your room and begin rummaging through your drawers until you come up with an old pair of sweatpants you wore in college when you used to run track. They'll probably be miles too big for her, but they're the smallest thing you own. Grabbing a clean pair of socks and one of your button down shirts, you limp back to the bathroom where you place them on the lid of the toilet, along with a clean towel.

Heading back to the living room, you start a fire in the fireplace. And then you go and check on the pizza you bought from the freezer section at the supermarket. Knowing what she likes, you added some ingredients of your own so it would appear you made some effort on her behalf. Your cooking skills are just about on par with your social skills, but you can cut up vegetables and cook a frozen pizza in the oven when necessary.

She emerges from the bathroom just as you are pulling the pizza out, and you freeze at the sight of her. Baggy sweat pants have never looked sexier, and your button down... well you'll be having dreams of her in that for years to come. She stands by the fire, her dark hair in a damp and tangled mass falling over her shoulders. You watch her with a sense of deja vu, or maybe (hopefully) it's foreshadowing. All you know is that your apartment has never felt more like home, as if something has been missing and you didn't know it until you got it back.

Before you know what you're doing, you've limped over to her and your fingers are skimming her smooth cheek like skipping stones across a placid pond. Gently, you move them over the bruise you caused, as if you could erase it with your touch.

"Better?" you ask, and she nods wordlessly, her gaze roaming from your eyes to your lips.

Your heart taps out her name in Morse Code. Unable to stop yourself, you lean in and touch your lips to hers in a whisper of a kiss.

And you feel it. Connection. Like the lights have come on after a long blackout.

It's always there between you, but now you feel it physically and there are no words to describe it. You just know you want more, but you break away because she's not ready. Her body needs time to heal, and maybe her heart does too.

"C'mon, let's eat," you say, and she follows you to the kitchen.

The two of you sit at stools pulled up to the butcher block in the center of your kitchen and you serve her pizza and wine. It's not the most romantic setting, but you figure it's better than sitting in front of the television. The candle you lit flickers between you and puts a flush on her cheeks that tempts you to kiss them.

She's quiet, almost eerily so, and you think that maybe she's waiting for the other shoe to drop, like this is all too good to be true. It's then you realize you're not so different from each other. Screwed over by life so many times that you instinctively flinch and wait for it to happen again whenever something good comes along.

While she may be quiet, she's eating voraciously. Between the two of you, you polish off the entire pizza and then you lead her into the living room and settle on the couch with another glass of wine.

"I got you something," you tell her, and pull out a book from beneath the cushion, passing it into her slender hands. Your romantic skills are rusted over from lack of use, but you hope she won't notice or care. Her eyebrows rise and she smiles as she reads the title. Gently, you take it back and open it to the page you marked and begin to read.

_"Love me, sweet, with all thou art,_

_Feeling, thinking, seeing,--_

_Love me in the lightest part,_

_Love me in full being._

_Love me with thine open youth_

_In its frank surrender;_

_With the vowing of thy mouth,_

_With its silence tender._

_Love me with thine azure eyes,_

_Made for earnest granting!_

_Taking color from the skies,_

_Can Heaven's truth be wanting?_

_Love me with their lids, that fall_

_Snow-like at first meeting;_

_Love me with thine heart, that all_

_The neighbors then see beating._

_Love me with thy voice, that turns_

_Sudden faint above me;_

_Love me with thy blush that burns_

_When I murmur "Love me!"_

She stops you with a hand on the page, a tear like a liquid diamond clinging to her eyelashes before sliding down her cheek. Ever so gently, she reaches for you, her fingers tracing over your face like silk on sandpaper. Her eyes tell you what she can't seem to say with words as she draws you down and kisses you.

Instinctively you know, she will change you for the better, like a steady stream bends and shapes the earth as it moves. Here, with her in your arms, you are at peace.

You are at peace.

**Fin**

**A/N:** The poem is _A Man's Requirements_ by Robert Browning.


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